Veins
by hopsjollyhigh
Summary: Christine discovers one of Erik's potentially deadly vices, and makes a decision that will push them both to their physical and emotional limits. Content warning for drug abuse.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: I've talked about wanting a fic that worked with Erik's morphine addiction with more accuracy. I didn't find one, so I am working on this. I am being as careful as I can with creating an accurate representation. __**Heavy trigger warning for drug abuse.**__ Leroux-verse, inspired by Kay canon. Looking at 2 or 3 chapters. Please, feel free to review!_

* * *

It had started with the piano. He was predictable at the bench; I'd seen him sit too many times to disregard a slip in his ritual- press his knuckles together until they produced a resounding crack, roll his narrow shoulders and raise his hands, fingers unfurled, over the slim rows of ivory. He'd inhale once, through his mouth, and lower his fingers to just barely touch the keys as he exhaled, looking down at the instrument with a relaxed fondness that was reserved solely for inanimate objects- he regarded the piano as a friend far closer than any living being would ever be.  
That night had been much the same; it would have passed without event, had it not been for the shirt he was wearing.  
It was new. I didn't know where he got his clothing from. I knew he ventured above ground for necessities every so often, but I couldn't imagine him allowing a tailor to come near him with a tape measure. Regardless, his clothes always seemed to fit perfectly, but the sleeves on this _new_ shirt were too long, and it irritated him. He didn't comment on it, but he picked at them throughout the day. It was impossible not to notice, when he had been my only company for so many days. I watched him in the way that scientists watch animals- I found his habits and patterns, and any variable was enough to set me on edge. His irritation could make him short-tempered; I resolved to avoid anything that might provoke him. Most of the day was perfectly pleasant- until the break in his pattern at the piano bench. After cracking his knuckles, he pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, and a gasp slipped through my lips before I could think. Angry purple bruises and open sores followed the protruding lines of his veins, and I _knew- _he was not the only man I'd seen with those marks. He wrenched his sleeve down again, tense with the realization that he'd made a mistake. There was a long silence. He sat frozen, hand still clutching his wrist.  
"Erik?"  
I heard my voice before I knew I had decided to speak. He remained still, staring straight ahead.  
"Look at me, Erik."  
After a moment's reluctance, he turned and met my eyes. He was sitting; for once, I was taller than him. I knelt next to the bench and guided his hand away from his wrist so I could roll his sleeve back up. The damaged skin was cold under my fingertips; I expected him to resist, but he only shuddered when my hand brushed the bare skin of his arm.  
"Some of these look swollen, Erik," I said, forcing my voice to stay level. "You should bandage them- you know that. You know how to care for injuries."  
I had learned to take talking to him like a game of logic. There was no margin for error- if I didn't look a few steps ahead, I'd lose. He'd fly into a temper, or shut down entirely- and he was a brutally difficult opponent. Conversations were more like matches, each of us moving our pawns in a carefully constructed dance, each working not to set the other off. It pains me to say so, but Erik's temper could draw out the worst in me, too. I had raised my voice to him before, and although he was larger than me, undoubtedly stronger than me, he seemed to shrink when I made my anger clear; it never lasted, but it was swift and caused unbelievable tension. I didn't know the extent of what he was capable of, but what I knew was enough to sufficiently convince me that his temper was something to avoid. When he frightened me, I could frighten myself. I learned to read him- his face was hidden, but the way he held himself told more than he seemed to think. He tilted his head at me, and I could see the slightest hint of his brow furrowing through the eye holes on his mask.  
"That's your concern, then? Swollen cuts?"  
"One of many," I answered carefully, rolling his sleeve back down and focusing on meeting his steady gaze. He studied me, and we lapsed into another uncomfortable silence. He wouldn't be the one to break it. "It seems- uncharacteristic."  
"You dance around the subject," he said, his voice almost a taunt. I felt a flare of irritation.  
"Fine, then. Why drugs? I can hardly see _you_ enjoying dependence on anything. And you are, aren't you- dependent? _Addicted?"  
_The teasing lilt of his voice vanished, and his eyes darkened. "And now you accuse without understanding."  
"I'm not a child. I know what the bruises mean. You do it often. You've done it while I've been here- while I'm asleep? Or are you using it to function normally? I know it happens- I know people who use too much can't behave normally without it. So is that where you are?"  
"All men have their vices," he said, breaking eye contact and looking back at the piano keys.  
"Not all vices are like this. They don't eat you alive- they won't kill you." My voice wavered; it was out of my mouth before I processed the words. _Kill him. _It could- I hadn't thought that far. I let go of his wrist, moved a few paces away and sat on the edge of one of his chair. I felt dizzy. He still stared at his piano, and after a moment, shook his head.  
"After everything- _this _will not be what kills me."  
"It can kill anybody. Especially after _everything." _I hardly knew what I was referring to, but it was clear enough that he was unhealthy- emaciated and, despite his strength, almost _brittle. _Like he was balancing on the edge of deterioration.  
"Erik is not _anybody," _he sneered, the muscles in his shoulders tightening- his temper was building, but my frustration only grew as he grew defensive. I leaned forward; even as I spoke, I could hear the edge to my voice, and a part of my mind screamed- _stop! _  
_"_You are bound by the same human limits as anyone else- you _know _how you're killing yourself. Are you trying to fade away, Erik? Do you want it to take you away gently? Do you ever _enjoy _it?"  
"There was a time. There was a time Erik _enjoyed_ it- and now he _needs _it- what would you have him do, Christine? _Would you have me stop?"  
_I fell silent, uncertain. He was looking at me again, fierce golden eyes narrow and accusing. He had asked so many questions in one! It was not whether I would have him stop- it was whether I would bear the consequences of him doing so- whether I was willing to see it. I had heard stories of how difficult it was; I'd never seen, but some part of me knew, and my stomach dropped. My throat closed; I couldn't answer him. The silence seemed hours long; I stared at the floor until a chord jarred me out of my own head, back into the room with him.  
"Shall we proceed, then?"  
The lesson was not productive. My mind was elsewhere; so was his. He sent me away early, choosing to play by himself while I retreated to my room. I was relieved. His company was not aggressive, but I read a hardly-concealed bitterness in every one of his movements. It wasn't until the evening, after eating in separate rooms (assuming he ate at all) that we sat in the parlor together again, as was our custom. He read a thick leather-bound book with intense interest, providing me with a rare opportunity to watch him without him noticing. I caught a tremor in his right hand and felt a pulling in my chest- concern for him. I could not fathom why. He clearly felt no concern for himself, and still. I knew his movements so well. My mind probed at the idea of it- a world where Erik did not tap his foot to the rhythms that doubtlessly played in his head. Where he didn't tilt his head and open subtly towards his object of interest, or incessantly crack his knuckles, or- _sing_. I shut my eyes briefly, only to open them and fix on him again.  
"I would," I said. He looked up as though he'd forgotten that I was in the room, brow raised.  
"Excuse me?"  
"Have you stop. I would."  
He set his book aside, attention full on me again. "You would…"  
I hesitated, took a breath, and nodded. He stirred uneasily in his chair, and the silence between us spoke of a grim mutual understanding. He clasped his trembling hands together and leaned forward, staring straight ahead; I settled in my seat, tilted my head back, and shut my eyes, consumed with anxiety. It didn't matter. Our wordless agreement was binding; we both knew. Nobody stopped without help. Frightening as it was- for so many reasons- we would endure it together.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Additional content warning for emetophobia in this chapter. Thank you for reading! If you enjoy it- or hate it, I guess- please leave a review!_

* * *

We had both left the parlor shortly after our decision, and when I woke in the morning, I found he had left a long wooden box just inside my door, accompanied by a number of vials. I knew immediately what was inside the box, but I felt it must be confirmed- and so it was. I felt a rush to my head at the sight of it. It was an ornate instrument in a fine case- I would have expected no less of Erik- but I could not find it beautiful. The needle was larger than I expected, and I found my eyes drawn to it despite my repulsion. It had been beneath his skin, inside his veins- closer than any person would ever be to him, it had dispensed his warm euphoria. I felt for a moment that I knew what it meant, when men compared morphine to a lover. It knew him beneath his flesh, inside the fragile tubes that pushed blood through him- straight to his heart, to the very core of his being, he and the needle had been one.  
I hadn't even seen him yet, and I wanted more than anything to run.  
I dragged my eyes away and shut the lid of the box, taking in a breath to collect myself. I couldn't take it back; I reminded myself that I wanted to take this on. I had chosen to try. Aware that these were my last few minutes of peace before the entire ordeal began, I slid the box, along with the vials, underneath my bed- out of sight and out of mind. I dressed simply, but spent more time than usual brushing out my hair, hungrily cherishing each moment I had before the inevitable- going out to see what state he was in. I had wondered whether he would behave differently so soon, but that much was obvious- I could _hear _him. His footsteps were generally catlike, so quiet that his presence could go completely undetected until he was directly behind me- and that was when he wasn't _trying _to be stealthy. I could hear the dull thud of his feet on the boards out in the parlor today, from behind my closed door. They were incessant, as if he were pacing. I couldn't help but test him, setting my hand on the knob so that it shifted and made a small noise. I listened, and the footsteps stopped the moment he heard me.  
I pulled open the door before I could think too hard about it, or before he could notice my hesitation, and before I could even see him, his anxiety struck me. It felt like the air before a storm- heavy and imposing, utterly inescapable. He stared at me openly for a moment, but seemed to catch himself and looked pointedly away- at the walls, at the furniture, anything and seeming _everything _but me. Already, I didn't know what to say; I automatically mumbled a "good morning" and he nodded in response, standing in the middle of the room as though he were in somebody else's home, afraid to sit down or touch anything. His hands trembled.  
"Have you eaten today?" I asked. I crossed my arms in front of me; I couldn't figure out what to do with my hands.  
"No- not today, no," he answered distantly. He continued to avoid looking at me.  
"Are you going to?"  
"Are you telling me to?"  
It took enormous restraint to contain the irritated sigh that threatened to emerge from my mouth. "I'm saying you _should," _I replied, my voice low and calm. "You should eat _every _day."  
"Erik is not _hungry_ every day," he retorted. "And it seems a waste- to eat when one isn't hungry- and right now, I don't think so… there is certainly food for you."  
I was silent, considering him carefully. He was being ambiguous. For what little I knew about him, ambiguity was not a trait I would assign- so why no clear answers? It was a simple enough question. Even now, at this fragile point, we were playing the game- but his was messy, and easy to see through. There was no subtlety; once I thought about it, I reached my conclusion. He _wanted_ me to take control. We had not laid out the rules of this endeavor last night; we were playing by ear, and he was unwilling- possibly unable- to be the responsible party. I nodded, quite slowly as I thought of how to move.  
"I'll make something for myself," I said, my voice more decisive than my thoughts. "Something for you, too."  
I could see the hesitation in his eyes.  
"Something small," I insisted. "At the very least, bread and water."  
He gave a noncommittal shrug in response, crossing his arms so that he could tap his fingers just above each elbow. I took it as agreement, whether or not he meant it, and moved back into the kitchen without another word. He trailed me, and set about preparing a kettle.  
"You want tea, then?" I asked.  
"Ginger," he muttered, utterly absorbed in the seemingly simple task of filling the kettle with water. "Perhaps it will help a bit…"  
When he produced a knife- to slice the ginger root, I assumed- I intervened. He couldn't keep his hands steady- or any part of him, really. His movements were erratic, without their usual grace, and he seemed to flinch often, as though some invisible person kept running their hands up his back. Allowing him to work with sharp instruments seemed unwise. "Erik- I've set aside bread for you, go eat. I'll do this," I told him, gently reaching over and setting my hand on top of his. He stared at it for a moment, taking in a sharp breath, then set the knife down, backing away.  
"If that's how you would have it," he murmured. He continued avoiding my eyes, and I wasn't facing him full-on, but I could feel him watching me. It was unnerving; I did my best to ignore him as I sliced the ginger thin.  
He was wearing a different mask than usual, one that exposed his lips and chin. He sat where I had set a plate on the table for him, one piece of bread which he picked at with his long fingers- as though, by pulling it apart, he could trick me into thinking he had eaten it. His foot was tapping, and his posture was odd. He sat like he was ready to run, tilted towards one side of the chair and tense in the shoulders, eyes darting around the room.  
"Are you looking for something?" I asked.  
His focus centered on me. He seemed startled. "What do you mean?"  
"You're nervous."  
He shook his head, denying it. I didn't believe him. He was aware of this, but said nothing further to correct me, which only validated me further.  
He would do anything to avoid admitting that he was afraid.  
Of course, I knew. And he was aware that I knew. Still, admitting it to himself was an utterly different story; it meant acknowledging that first weakness, the first sign of his deterioration.  
I considered how to approach this. There was no way that this could continue, no way it could be successful when he refused to talk to me. I had a moment to think, to plan my next move; he was preoccupied, and I pretended to focus on the ginger, which went straight into the kettle to be strained out later. I swallowed my nerves, set the knife back in its drawer, and sat wordlessly across the table from him.  
"Erik," I said. My voice was a command, and, incredibly enough, he listened, looking straight at me. His focus wouldn't hold long; I reached across the table and set one of my hands on top of his. He flinched as though I had moved to strike him, and his breath rattled.  
"This is going to get more difficult," I said. We both stared at the table, unable to maintain the combination of eye contact and physical contact at the same time. "As it gets worse, you have to be honest with me. I can't do anything at all if you're not honest."  
"Erik does not need any _favors_\- he can take care of himself-"  
"Please stop that," I said, curling my fingers over the top of his hand. "You're already uncomfortable, it's obvious. You need help- you can admit that, Erik."  
He met my eyes for a long moment, and another shiver seemed to run through him before he stood abruptly, turned on his heel, and strode away. The door to his room closed behind him, and I sat there with my hand still outstretched, staring at nothing. I sighed, a long noise of frustrated despair; it took so _little_ to drive him away. I sat unmoving until the kettle boiled, considering whether to follow him. This gave me an excuse, at least. I strained some of the liquid and approached his door with a cupful. If he truly didn't want me there, he could always ignore me, but it was my sense that he was simply overwhelmed. He reluctantly opened the door when I knocked, and I held the cup out to him.  
"Do you know how it happens?" he asked as he took the cup.  
"I know you'll be sick. You already are. I know you'll want to go back to it," I answered. "Telling me what to expect would be helpful."  
He nodded slowly and walked past me, back into the parlor where I could follow him. The tremor in his hands sent some of the tea spilling over the edge of the mug, but he didn't seem to notice, even as the water scorched his skin, which seemed to have become, if possible, even paler than the night before.  
"It will look like a flu," he told me, as calmly as he could manage. "I have a fever, which will go up. My stomach will not accept food- eating is useless. Ginger will help the nausea a bit. And that's how I'll feel. How I do feel. Nauseous. Disoriented. Tired, but- my muscles won't stop. It's bright, and loud, and- cold. Very cold."  
He had spoken quickly, and his breath was shallow. In the dim light of the parlor, I could see sweat glistening on his neck- some of the only skin I could see. It was absurd, how he had dressed himself for the day. I wondered briefly if he was sweating like that under the mask- he couldn't keep it on through everything… but mentioning it would drive him away for certain. I nodded my understanding.  
"If you're going to be that ill, there's no reason to be dressed so- ornately," I said. "You are in your own home."  
He shrugged. "It would be better- perhaps- it's habit, but it may be a bit much."  
"You should find something simpler."  
A robe delicately embroidered with a great golden Persian lion was hardly what I was thinking, but he wore it over a loose and simple cotton shirt and pants, so I refrained from comment when he emerged from his room again a few minutes later.  
His decline was rapid, and terrible to witness. I could see him fighting to appear at least somewhat normal whenever he was conscious of me watching him, but his frustration grew more and more evident as his body defied him. More and more often, he disappeared into his room; we had compromised on him drinking water and tea, not necessarily eating anything, but even on that, I could hear him retching and gagging when he disappeared into his bathroom. Following him into his room, in addition to going against every instinct I had concerning Erik, would have been pointless. What could I do for him? My frustration grew with his. Being there was all I _could _do, and most of the time, it was kinder to pretend I hadn't noticed something than to try and help him- the way his breath became short and eyes brightened with pain when he tried to move effectively. It was in his muscles and his bones, he had told me- deep and burning pain, mostly in his legs, which he could not stop shifting and moving. Even when he sat down, he alternated between curling and extending his legs.  
I could keep getting him water and hot tea, pile blankets on him, and observe the physical symptoms- there was no way to know the chaos in his head. I tried to distract him by maintaining conversations, but his attention was too short. Even when he held a book open, I noticed his eyes growing distant. With little surprise, I noted that the only thing that seemed to soothe him was music. The tremors in his hands were too violent to play an instrument, which frustrated him beyond reason. I had listened to him in his room for a good hour, trying to get through increasingly simple pieces- and then a cry of frustration and a great, harrowing silence which hung heavy in the air. I had not asked him about the organ when he finally emerged from his room, but after a while, had begun to sing quietly, as if to myself as I read in a chair next to the couch that he had settled himself on for most of the day. I had watched out of the corner of my eye, and it caught his interest. If he thought I was doing it for his benefit, he would refuse to be comforted by it; so I raised my volume gradually, pretending to still be reading. I had been very careful to seem absent-minded, and he was easier to fool than usual. After the first song, the pretense wasn't as necessary. I had started for _myself- _or so he believed- and he did not stop me when I continued for his sake.  
When I sang, his eyes faded shut and his breathing grew deeper. I knew he wasn't asleep, _couldn't _sleep right now, but it was the most I could do to get him to relax a bit, even if his legs still spasmed, and cold sweat ran down his neck.  
He coughed- only a bit at first, but more violently as the day went on. It was wretched to listen to, and left him panting and holding his throat. I kept the hot tea next to him- always with ginger, although it didn't seem to be doing much. He went to his room frequently, about every quarter-hour, and from the sound of it, threw up about half as often. His purpose for going in his room when he wasn't vomiting didn't become clear until the late evening.  
His regular disappearances into his room were not something I intruded upon- that was his space. But a heavy thud followed by a resounding crash and Erik's cry of pained shock drew me from my seat without thinking- I was at his door in heartbeats, and found him curled on his side on the ground, next to an end table which had tipped over and spilled its contents onto the floor around him. He hadn't noticed my entrance, and was reaching for the edge of his coffin, something to pull himself up on- I approached to offer my hand, but he cringed at the sound of my footsteps and turned towards the wall.  
"Don't," he warned. I stopped, confused; realization dawned on me when I saw his mask among the objects that had spilled off of the table. There was a damp towel in his hand, and more tossed in a basket on the opposite side of the room. That was what it had been- each time he pulled his shivering body out from under the mass of blankets he had accumulated, each time he had forced his protesting muscles to bring him across the house, it had been to remove his mask and rinse the sweat from his face. I knelt next to him, taking care not to look at him, and placed a hand on his shoulder; guilt overwhelmed me, despite my not knowing.  
"Erik," I said, as gently as I could. "Please. Tell me what happened."  
He took a long breath before speaking. "A spasm in my knee- I fell. Tried to hold onto the table, but…" he trailed off. That part was obvious enough. We were silent for a moment, him still curled away from me on the floor, me kneeling next to him. I picked up his mask with my other hand, and spoke.  
"You can't keep this up, Erik."  
"It was a mistake to begin," he murmured, shuddering. I felt my own muscles tense.  
"That's not what I meant," I said. "Neither of us can be afraid of the other."  
"This does not have to continue," he insisted. He attempted to sound in control, but his voice broke. He wanted to go back; I could feel it in the constant spasm of his shoulder, and he curled further into himself, his trembling becoming more obvious. He had given me partial control over the situation, and this signaled what needed to be done- I had to take the rest, however much he may protest it.  
"Look at me," I said, pulling on his shoulder. He resisted, but he was weak; I rolled him onto his back and took the towel from his hand. He had shut his eyes, but I could see tears gathering in their corners- of frustration, grief, desperation, fear, everything he felt so _overwhelmingly_; the sight of it struck me, and I steeled my nerve. I had seen his face before, and terrifying as it was, the situation at hand made it seem almost insignificant. There was so much more to be frightened by- real things, that could hurt both of us. I passed the towel over his forehead, wiping sweat off of his brow; he opened his eyes and, groaning with the effort and the burning in his muscles, raised himself on his elbows.  
"You can stand," I told him. He nodded wordlessly, and I ducked, putting one of his arms around my neck. Slowly, I helped him regain his footing. With his height, having his arm around my shoulders was impractical after a certain point, but he kept a hand on me for balance. The simple act of standing up left him unable to draw a deep breath, panting as desperately as though he had run miles. It was going to get worse. I knew it would. He stood trembling on his long legs like a fawn taking its first steps, but I doubted whether he would be able to walk at all in a few hours.  
"You have to trust me, Erik," I said gently, encouraging to take a step forward. He looked at me out of the corner of his eye, maskless and out of breath. His hand was freezing on my shoulder; if it was any indication of how cold he felt, I wanted him back under blankets as quickly as possible. I had to know first. "Are you going to trust me?"  
He moved with me uncertainly, silent until we were out of his room, then seemed to steel himself- his muscles tensed under my hand before he turned to look me full in the eyes.  
"I trust you."


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Thank you for your reviews and follows! This was supposed to be the last chapter, but it's not- I decided that there was too much left to happen, so there will be a chapter 4. Additional content warnings for anxiety, panic attacks, explicit death, and suicidal ideation in this chapter._

* * *

Denied the option of running away, Erik had no choice in whether he allowed me to see the extent of his suffering. He was curled under layers of blankets, but still shivered uncontrollably. Nothing warmed him, and nothing eased the constant burn in his muscles, which he did not talk about, but which I could see written on his face each time he moved. He was in terrible pain that I could do nothing to ease. I could hear his breathing hitch; I could see him struggle to contain himself, but since falling in his bedroom he had been unable to contain the tears that gathered in the corners of his yellow eyes and spilled down his scarred, sunken cheeks.  
Before this endeavor, I had been certain that I could not bear his tears again. There wasn't an option now. If I broke, he did. I could not allow myself to cry; not when convulsions racked his body, or when he begged me to "end this"- I wasn't even certain what the "this" he was referring to was anymore; the withdrawal, or his life. He spoke constantly of death- how it would be preferable to this complete breakdown of his mind and body. I could not bear to listen to it, and I curled inside myself; I was a child covering my ears- I turned my back against the storm of his suffering and walked with the wind, its incessant howling beating at the inside of my head. I could not _listen_ to him- I stayed safely in my own mind, tuning him out however I could- reading books, embroidering complex designs to go on nothing and be seen by nobody. Time passed strangely underground, but it had been roughly 36 hours from his last injection, by my best estimate- it had been enough time to turn him into this miserable creature, a pitiful thing that could barely move around his own house. He was _still_ deteriorating. In plain view of his suffering, I turned my head away. It was what was necessary. I could not go down that path with him, painful as it was to watch him alone. I felt disconnected- not just from him, but from the world as a whole. I was not myself; he could see it as acutely as I could feel it, and distantly, I heard him plead so many times- "Christine, please- Christine, _come back."  
_"I'm here, Erik," I would reply, and he would shake his head.  
"You're not here," he would reply, voice trembling. _"It's not you."  
_His pride had abandoned him, and it was surreal to watch- so separate from my mind's image of him. But really, that was what I was there to do- _watch_. I felt invasive, voyeuristic; he was not one to share his suffering, and though he had cried and knelt before me on other occasions, it was different here. He had lost control of his body, and his mind was rapidly following; he had not forfeited anything voluntarily. He struggled to hold himself in place, but he gave into his cravings with increasing regularity. He was weak, and I was aware that, for the first time, I would be capable of physically overpowering him, if I needed to do so. I hadn't done a particularly good job of hiding the box and the vials- they were still underneath my bed- but where was there in Erik's house that I knew better than him? Where I put them didn't matter. He would find them, given the chance- but as long as I watched, that chance was not there.  
Forgetting empathy was the only way to do my job with any measure of efficiency, I had convinced myself. He was right, desperate as he sounded; it was _not_ me, those few hours. I was functioning mechanically for fear of becoming lost in _his_ suffering. When he broke down, I would occasionally reach over and touch his hand, but I was hardly aware of my actions, and they were no comfort to him- he was aware that I was going through the motions, operating as an automaton. If he wanted a machine, he could have built one for himself; by and large, he had nothing but a gargoyle's company.  
In my distance, I failed to notice that he had stopped drinking the tea and water I brought for him. I had dragged one of his coffee tables closer to the sofa that he was curled on, and every so often I would set a glass in front of him. He was sweating enough that the cotton shirt clung to his skeletal figure like a damp rag. It only made it more difficult for him to find warmth, and he curled into himself as much as he could, trying to conserve what body heat he could. His shivering was uncontrollable; his teeth chattered, and the tips of his fingers had taken on a bluish hue. Even his voice, the one part of him that I had never imagined could be touched, was weak and tremulous when he spoke- which was rare; he spoke only to cry out for me, to beg for me, and I forced it out of my head. I could do _nothing. _This was how I was most useful- separate and awake, keeping my thoughts and feelings level and rational. He would be better for it later, I told myself. The way he whimpered pitifully- it wasn't who _he_ was, either. It was nothing but a side effect.  
He rarely attempted to stand now, and I always cast a suspicious eye on him when he did. When the blankets started to shift and he cautiously planted his feet on the ground, I frowned at him. "Where are you going?" I asked, lowering the book I had been reading (without any knowledge retention whatsoever) to fix my eyes on him.  
"A different shirt," he murmured. He was hunched over, and I could see the knobs of his spine as the one he was wearing clung to his back. I nodded and my eyes wandered away as he picked his way toward his room- directly after his fall I had insisted on helping him walk when he needed to, but in time it had turned out that, as long as he spent most of his time resting, it wasn't necessary. He could still move decently enough, and occasionally got up just to satisfy the demands of the muscles in his legs. This time, however, he paused. I looked up again at the sound of my name- "Christine, I-"  
He did not finish; I dropped my book and rushed out of my seat as his eyes rolled back in his skull. I crossed the room quickly enough to catch him halfway down, but he was a dead weight, and I fell with him, half-pinned underneath him. It had slowed the fall, though; that much I could be grateful for- but despite all of my efforts, I felt a thick panic rising in my throat as I shuffled away from him, kneeling on the floor next to his utterly unresponsive figure.  
"Erik?" I asked uselessly, laying one hand on his shoulder. Nothing- his eyes were closed now and his mouth open, breathing rapidly. Unevenly. I shook his shoulder, and took in a deep breath; _calm, calm- _but I brushed his hand with one of mine- it was not the type of coldness one could pull away from; it was not the cold of snow or ice- it pulled greedily at my hand, drawing every inch of warmth it could from me and still growing colder. It was too terrifying in its _familiarity_. I felt my breath quicken to match his, and in moments, I was gasping, caught in the memory of another cold hand- _it was the cold of death- _a night years ago, where I had clung to another cold body, my throat hoarse with screaming- _papa, please, come back- don't leave me alone- _they had pried me away from him; I choked on a sob, and the truth of my mechanical behavior came clear. This was what I had been avoiding. I shook his shoulder more violently. "Erik, _please_," I begged; the tears spilled over and fell on his shirt. The only indication of life was the pulse visible in his throat, beating _far too fast-_ with each passing moment, my desperation grew; it could not have been more than two minutes, but it felt like hours- by the time his body stirred, I was practically shouting. My throat ached from gasping for air, and my chest felt so _tight- _I felt my father's dead hands in his, and when his fingers stirred, a great sob of relief tore its way out of me. He whispered my name; I choked back another cry and answered with his.  
"Erik."  
"You are crying," he mumbled, and it was all I could do to nod, biting my lip; his eyes had opened a bit, and he looked at me hazily. "I hate to see you cry..."  
He moved to sit up, but groaned in pain and fell back the moment his shoulders left the ground.  
"Stop. Stay there," I told him. He was alive- he was _fine- _I could still feel my throat constricting; I panted through sobs and clung to his hand, willing the warmth into it. He lay in silence for a moment before opening his eyes again.  
"Tell me about it, Christine," he urged me. I shook my head.  
"I'm taking care of _you_," I told him, my voice taut and breathless. His hand tightened around mine.  
"So you are. I want to hear- tell me."  
My resolve and my voice both wavered; I bowed my head and shut my eyes, as though it were a prayer. "I don't want to watch you die," I whispered. "Not again- not down here."  
He shut his eyes and let out a long breath; with a great effort, he pushed himself off the ground, sitting up so that his face was level with mine. "As long as you are here," he told me, "I will not die."  
The words were absurd, but he said them with such conviction- I opened my eyes and found myself looking directly into his. He believed in what he said- it was more clarity than he had shown in hours, and I wiped at my eyes. The pressure was starting to release its hold, and I took a few deep, shaky breaths.  
"You've said that you want to," I whispered.  
"Christine." He said my name so often, as though reminding himself that it was _me. _Even in his near-delirious state, he was reluctant to touch me, but I felt his other hand come close to my face; I leaned forward, and despite the chill, I found comfort in his fingertips brushing, feather-light, at my cheeks, where tears still fell. I opened my eyes and saw that he was crying too. He would not have wanted me to touch his face.  
"I cannot. Not as long as _you are here."  
_"You want to, though."_  
_He paused, and I could feel his muscles tighten, nearly all at once; he relaxed them with a forced sigh, and just barely shook his head. "Not as long as you are here," he repeated.  
I looked down again, practicing long, deep breaths as he just barely held my face in his hand, whispering words that I could hardly make sense of- what mattered was the talking itself. I don't know how long we sat like that. His trembling brought me back- if his hands were so cold- I pulled away from him and stood, taking one last steadying breath. Some barrier had been broken, but it all remained the same at heart- we had chosen a path. I still had a role- as did he- and there was work to be done. He needed water. He needed warmth. I could do something to provide those- and he could work at surviving. I rubbed at my eyes one last time and offered him my hand.  
"Here, then," I said, forcing my voice to stay level. "We're not through yet."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I know, I know, I know, I'm really sorry! Life happened. I graduated and stuff. But I promised I wouldn't abandon this story, so here we are. The conclusion to Veins.

There was only one place to bring him, really. The couch was not sufficient anymore- he had to curl his legs to fit on it at all. We should have moved a long time ago, but I had known it would be an issue; waiting until he was too weak to protest effectively probably saved me quite a bit of time and grief in the end.  
He dug his heels into the ground as I guided him towards the Louis-Philippe room. I looked back him; I knew what he would say, but felt obligated to ask anyway.  
"Erik? Will you follow me?"  
"It's not mine," he murmured. "I do not- shouldn't be in there."  
"You have a _coffin_ instead of a bed, Erik. It's just not going to work," I insisted, but he held his ground, his whole body tense with indecision. I let go of his lower arm, where I had been guiding him, and touched his palm. His fingers, still cold as death, wrapped around my hand, less of an action and more of an instinct- whether seeking warmth or reassurance, I couldn't say. But I slipped my fingers between his and pulled him towards the door. "You need to listen to me," I said. "I can't do anything if you won't _listen_."  
He looked at the ground, looked back at me, and stepped forward tentatively, each nerve alive as though he expected something to leap from the shadows gathered in the corners of the room. Turning on the lamps would only hurt his eyes; we'd been wandering about in relative darkness for quite a few hours because of the readjustments his body and mind were struggling to make- and grossly overcompensating for. Once I managed to get him to lay down, though, he seemed to relax just a small bit. He managed to take a breath that sounded reasonably full, and let it out without coughing. The small victories had to count for something.  
What blankets weren't damp with cold sweat, I brought into the room and piled on top of the down comforter and sheets that the bed was already fitted with. He had curled himself into a trembling mass on one side of the bed; he looked very small like this, barely any part of him visible beneath a mound of blankets that simply were not enough to warm him. Still, it seemed as comfortable as I could make him. I provided a steady supply of weak ginger tea, which he protested drinking for fear that he would start vomiting, but I told him firmly that I would rather see him throw up then pass out again. His trembling hands spilled more tea on the blankets than what reached his mouth. It would have been too difficult to get him standing again to replace them, and after only a few minutes, all of the sheets were damp with sweat anyway- as uncomfortable as it was, watching him tremble and huddle like a cornered animal in such filthy conditions, I pulled a chair to the opposite edge of the bed. No more voyeurism. I would be an active participant in whatever was happening- even in his suffering.  
My throat was tight and dry; I felt too close to tears to sing, so instead, I read aloud. A book of short stories I had found in his parlor- the words didn't matter. His golden eyes were narrow slits, staring at me from across the bed. Every breath he took was ragged, and I could see the blankets shift as his muscles pulled taut with each new wave of pain or nausea that overtook him. I attempted to read through it, to be an anchor he could cling to, until his fists clenched, taking handfuls of the quilt, and he turned his face towards the pillow, back arching up as a guttural, unnatural cry finally broke out of his chest and into his mouth. I dropped the book and leaned forward, reaching one hand across the empty expanse of the bed between us.  
"I can't…" he moaned, the edges of his voice torn and frayed. "Christine…"  
"You will," I insisted, as steadily as I could manage. "It will be over soon."  
_"Soon isn't good enough,"_ he whimpered; he slipped one hand up over his head, through what existed of his sparse hair, and held onto it fiercely enough that I feared he'd tear it out, pulling himself tighter into a ball at the edge of the bed. I froze for a heartbeat, but I couldn't sit idly by while he seemed likely to scalp himself; I reached out further and grasped his wrist. His skin was damp, and colder than I had ever felt it before, and I could feel his heartbeat almost immediately, fluttering erratically and out of time. He stopped when I touched him, and gradually turned his head back towards me.  
"Just hold on for a few moments longer," I said, more softly this time. "A few moments at a time. We're doing this together. Just get through the moment."  
I was uncertain what to expect- whether he would throw my hand off of him, or respond at all- but I was unprepared when he pulled his wrist away only to take my hand in his own, his grip so desperately tight that I gasped, fearing for a moment that he would break my fingers. He was trembling so violently- I could feel it down my arm, now that he clutched onto my hand. I sat like that, with my arm extended across the bed, for what seemed like forever. He didn't seem to know what he was doing, as the clutches of delirium made wispy grabs at his consciousness. He drew my hand close to his chest, as though it were some precious item he was guarding. I could feel myself trembling, too- despite his current weakness, I could not bring myself to entirely forget the atrocities he was capable of. My hand ached, but I couldn't bring myself to take it away from him. Close to his chest, I could feel his heart even more defined, the rapid patter that seemed too fast to be possible- it seemed his heart would burst if it kept up the pace. He was crying, still, and mumbling words to himself that I couldn't understand.  
Time was not making anything better.  
I couldn't think of anything to do other than sit there, and let him hold onto my hand. Had he recognized what he was doing- holding my hand to his chest- I was certain he would have stopped. He likely would have backed off and apologized, probably wept at the weight of his transgression. He always wept when he apologized. But his eyes were unseeing, and his mind was wandering somewhere far away from the room where I sat with him. I would squeeze his hand sometimes, when he would begin to whimper, and sometimes, he would stop.  
Over time, I found myself leaning forward against the bed, slumped forward in my chair. I tucked one arm under my chin, with the other still stretched out for Erik. There was no way to measure time- no sun. Not even a clock that I could see from where I was. I knew that it had been more than 24 hours, perhaps more than 36, and my own mind was beginning to fog. It was absolute physical and emotional exhaustion. My vigil did not seem close to over. He still moaned with pain, still trembled with fever; all I could hope for him by then was that he was delirious enough to not feel pain, but judging by the way he would periodically grind his teeth and dig his nails into my hand, it seemed unlikely. My eyes stung, even in the low light of the room, and I blinked hard. Once. Twice. A third time, and it was a struggle to open them. I could feel myself falling. I could hear my conscious mind begging me, _stay awake_, but my face was buried in the mattress, and for just a few moments, he seemed calmer than he had been before. Maybe it would be okay, I thought, to take a break. To just stop focusing, just for a moment.  
And darkness bloomed around me, taking me before I could form another coherent thought.

No way to measure time. No sun, no moon- only the black room around me, and emptiness at the end of my outstretched hand. It ached badly, felt bruised from the inside-out. I flexed it a few times, opening and closing my fingers, grasping at nothing- _nothing_. I sat up fast enough that it made my head spin. He was gone- as my eyes adjusted to the low light, it only became more clear that he was gone. Utterly disappeared. I dropped gracelessly from the chair to the floor, and craned my neck to search underneath the bed.  
He was gone. _The box_ was gone. My stomach flipped as I stood- the blankets were strewn across the room, except for one- a clean one, that had been draped over my shoulders while I slept.  
How long had I slept?  
I thought I would scream when I threw open the door to my room- the vials, those vials full of foul liquid, were scattered on the floor of the parlor. Instead, it all caught in my throat. I could make no noise at all, not a whisper of protest, but my opening the door had been enough. He spoke before I saw him, his voice coming from his high-backed chair across the room.  
"One of the last things I remember," he says, "is telling you that I would not die. Not with you here."  
I couldn't bring myself to look at him. I stared at the vials, fracturing the firelight into violent strips of red and orange.  
"I promised you," he said. "I promised that I would not die. It was not a promise that I could break. And I was about to, Christine. One can tell when they are about to die- one way or another- or, I can, I suppose. This hasn't been the first time I've cheated death, Christine."  
His voice was _perfect_\- the ragged gasps and screams seemed so suddenly far away. This was the voice I knew. The same voice I had always known.  
I did not look him in the eye- only tilted my head up enough to see the needle perched on his armrest. The sickening confirmation that I needed. I looked back at the ground, fighting tears that threatened at the corners of my eyes- why did I feel like a child being scolded, as though I'd voiced some thoughtless, foolish dream?  
We'd been so close. I shut my eyes, and balled my hands into fists. We'd been _so close_. He couldn't even properly _remember_ how close we'd been- it had to have ended soon. It had to have almost been time for things to turn.  
Unless he was right. Unless he wouldn't have survived.  
I couldn't find the words to ask him. I didn't want to talk to him- not when he was like this- but he had always been like this. I hadn't known. That was the only change- me knowing.  
I could feel his eyes on me. He was so composed, so painfully _like himself_.  
"You're in need of real rest, Christine," he said. I wanted to shut my ears to the sound of him speaking. I wanted to shout at him, but I couldn't find the grounds to do so- not questioning whether he had been dying. Not with this exhaustion in my bones. If I had just stayed awake, just a little bit longer, though- things could have changed. I took a shaky breath before saying the only thing I could think to say.  
"I want to go home."  
A silence hung heavy in the air. It was what I wanted, desperately- to be away from him, away from the mess of his underground home and the hardly-concealed smell of the stagnant lake outside, away from his too-familiar voice.  
"It was hopeless from the start, Christine," he said, his tone quiet. I shook my head. I didn't want to hear anything from him- nothing, either way. I didn't want his attempted comfort. The silence stretched even longer this time, and again, he was the one to break it.  
"You'll still come back?"  
I nodded silently. What choice was there in the matter? He stood, steadier on his feet than he should've been, and I could hear, but could not watch him walk across the parlor.  
"You have the key to the Rue Scribe, I trust?" Another nod. He sighed and lead the way out the door- I would have insisted on going alone, had I any way of returning the boat to his house. He had a trick for everything else; I took a moment to be bitter that he had no means of getting his boat back when someone else took it. But then, I supposed, he had never planned for more than one person to use it.  
He was mercifully quiet as we slipped across the dark water. My hand still ached. He would never remember why. It was only as I was stepping onto the shore that he spoke again.  
"We know now, at least," he said. "That I'm… too far. It cannot be fixed. We tried."  
I forced myself to look at him, for the first time since waking. He looked as he always had- mask replaced. Dressed formally. A dark specter, other than those golden eyes, bright as embers, even in this darkness. It was night beyond the gate, but the moon was out.  
I couldn't find words, even as I turned my back on him again, and stepped out of the boat. Even as I turned the lock on the gate of the Rue Scribe. But something hung unspoken in the air, and I looked back at him before I slipped through the gate.  
"Someday," I said, "there will be more than just not dying. You were fighting… just a little bit longer…"  
I shook my head. He was quiet. I couldn't feel anger anymore, looking down at him from the gate; he just stared, as lost for words as I had been. Neither of us knew the way to talk about what had happened- what we had done, and what we had failed to do. I took another step back.  
"I will return. You have my word," I said wearily, and before he could figure out any excuse, or response, I had shut the gate. I wasn't even certain which feeling sent tears streaming down my face as I walked home in the moonlight, but I had hidden them from Erik. It was enough to have accomplished that. And above ground, in my own home, I would sleep a long and dreamless sleep, far away from his blood, and his tears, and his voice, and I would not study the bruises that clung for days afterward onto my hand.


End file.
